


Consider The Lilies

by Mr_Maxibillion



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Broken Wings, Canon - Book, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Language, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Sickfic, Time Skips, Wings, pestilence is a shitty wingman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Maxibillion/pseuds/Mr_Maxibillion
Summary: After an unexpected embrace and a visit from an old associate, Crowley is left with a predicament that starts simple but quickly becomes more than he can handle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a full fic for this fandom, so sorry if it doesn't make sense or is bad in general. However, these two are immensely fun to write :D

_Brooklyn, September 27, 1936._

“Really, Az, it’s not a big deal,” Crowley smiled, unlocking the door to his apartment and allowing his companion to enter first.

“You got into a bar fight. That seems like a pretty big deal to me,” Aziraphale frowned, sitting on Crowley’s surprisingly simple red-cushioned couch. His fingers drummed against the wooden armrest to his right as he watched Crowley put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “Are you sure your nose is alright? I could always fix it up, you know.”

“I think it’ll be fine.” He dabbed at the skin above his upper lip and came away with a bit of blood. “It’s not broken, it’ll heal by tomorrow morning. Plus, it makes me look cool.”

“I don’t see how blood pouring out of your nose can make you look ‘cool’, or whatever sort of slang you prefer. Besides, it’s not like you’ll be meeting anyone worth impressing. It’s just going to be you and me, after all.”

“You say that as if _you’re_ not worth impressing.” Crowley sat down beside his friend, sipping at the glass of whiskey that appeared in his hand. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, conjuring a shallow glass of red wine and taking a sip himself.

“It’s difficult to impress someone who’s witnessed you drunkenly sob over _Frankenstein_.”

“Oh, come on, angel, that was a sad movie!”

“How on His green Earth is _Frankenstein_ sad?”

“He was misunderstood!”

The two bantered for a while, arguing over the moral merits of Doctor Frankenstein and the other antagonists of the horror films they had watched together over the years. After they were thoroughly tipsy, Crowley stood and began to pace.

“I mean, obviously Hyde is a bad guy, angel, but he was half of an overall good _whole_!”

“As soon as you get into that blasted ‘half of a whole’ nonsense, I lose all sense of understanding,” Aziraphale muttered, rubbing his temples in an attempt to do away with his mounting headache.

“It’s like if we were two people trapped in the same body,” Crowley explained, “except one of us is a doctor and the other is a psychopath.”

“I want to be the doctor.”

“No fair!” Crowley laughed, falling onto the couch and accidentally bouncing right back off in the process. He was now lying on the carpet, nursing a freshly produced glass of liquor.

“Time,” Aziraphale yawned, placing his empty wine glass on the coffee table, where it quickly lost its footing and fell, rolling to the edge of the table and landing on Crowley’s face.

“What about it?” Crowley mumbled, throwing the glass across the room, where it shattered to bits on the carpet. Neither parties seemed to notice.

“What is it?”

“Like, theo… theoretic’lly?”

“No, what’s the bloody _time_?”

“Oh.” Crowley checked his watch. “Jus’ past 1:00. Why, you planning to leave?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Aziraphale replied simply, standing and stumbling a bit as he threw his coat back on. “I guess I have to sober up if I’m going to get a taxi, eh?”

“I mean, I guess you don’t _have_ to,” Crowley replied despite the fact that Aziraphale’s face was already thoroughly scrunched up as the alcohol left his blood.

“Right, well, I ought to be off.”

“Right.”

Crowley shakily got to his feet, holding a hand out for Aziraphale to shake. It felt oddly formal, especially considering the immensely deep conversation about monsters they had just had. But, hey, Crowley was still shitfaced, so it seemed like the proper way to say goodbye to a very close friend.

Aziraphale smiled, taking the demon’s hand and pulling him into a hug. “Don’t forget to sober up before bed, dearest. Otherwise, you’ll wake up with an awful headache,” he said quietly.

The impromptu embrace was more than enough of a surprise for the whiskey in Crowley’s blood to evaporate, leaving him both sober and a bit stunned.

The angel gave Crowley a light smile and a quick pat on the shoulder before leaving, the door clicking politely behind him.

And then Crowley was alone. As alone as one can be when confronted by a hailstorm of thought, that is.

Sure, Aziraphale was affectionate. That sort of came with being an angel, didn’t it? Yes, affection, that was sort of the whole _thing_. Angels had their emotions and compassion, and demons were meant to be cold and calculated. How ironic, Crowley thought, that Heaven was almost essentially an office building run by an intense hypochondriac and that Hell was nothing more than a pit of screams and ash and ruthless impulsivity.

Yes, how funny it was.

What had he been thinking about again?

Ah, yes. Aziraphale.

Yes, he’s compassionate, but the only times they had ever “hugged” before were when they were both utterly smashed and at least partially conscious of it, so there was never any real tenderness or care in them. The embraces were mostly for the purpose of keeping both of them from falling over. This hug felt different from that. Different and strange and scary and _new_.

And, despite there only being a few measly letters tacked on at the end, “dearest” was _incredibly_ different from “dear”, or at least it was to Crowley. Wording is everything, after all, right up there with money and political power and all the other nonsense humans had made in a clear attempt to destroy the society they had so messily built for themselves.

But Crowley was a chronic overthinker and well aware of it, thus deciding that it was just the fantastical part of his brain overcoming that of the logical.

Perhaps fantastical wasn’t the best way to phrase it. After all, it implied unintended fictional indulgence of some form, which was most certainly not present. Not in the slightest.

Deciding to resolve the matter in the morning, likely by forgetting the whole blasted thing, Crowley strode to his room and collapsed, not bothering to change out of his tasteful button-up and vest as his head crashed into the pillows. Wrinkles were a problem for Future Crowley to deal with.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was very rare for Present Crowley (who was, in reality, Future Crowley, but only in relation to Past Crowley) to at all tolerate Past Crowley. Past Crowley was, in fact, a twat, and Present Crowley was getting incredibly tired of him. Like now, for example. Past Crowley had neglected to take his sunglasses off before falling asleep face-down, and as a result, Present Crowley now had red lines pressed into his face by the metal frames. He groaned, peeling the glasses off of his face and tossing them unceremoniously onto his bedside table.

After a few minutes of stalling, Crowley swung his legs over the side of the bed, noticing the blinking 10:05 on his alarm clock as he peered around. He was surprised to have woken up so early; he tried to keep his naps to a minimum of 12 hours, but 18 was his usual goal. But it seemed that today, 8 would be all he got.

He stood up to make himself some coffee, only then realizing the scratch at the back of his throat, probably from sleeping with his mouth open. Shrugging his shoulders, Crowley let the thought slide past him and decided to resolve the matter later. Right now, coffee was the highest and only priority.

The process of making coffee was, admittedly, a bit tedious, but Crowley enjoyed it nonetheless. It gave him time to think without worrying about the next thing, and the thing after that, and so on and so forth. Yes, waiting for his coffee was the most productive part of his day, from a certain standpoint.

His plans of contemplation were halted by the discovery of a note left on his counter. Picking up the bit of paper, Crowley was surprised to find the scratchy and thin handwriting of an old accomplice.

_Crawly (or Crowley, or whatever the hell it is now),_

_It’s been a while. Something important is going on, and I figured you should be the fourth one to know (sorry, had to tell the other Three first, you know how they can be). I’m quitting, which is apparently as easy as filing a two weeks’ notice. Damn penicillin got me in the end, it seems. I just wanted to let you know one last time that causing epidemics with you was an absolute blast (bubonic and smallpox were my personal favorites). I was going to stop in last night to tell you in person, but you seemed quite caught up with that little angel friend of yours. I’ve given you a farewell gift. Good luck._

_Sincerely yours, Pestilence._

Well, that would explain the scratchy throat. He had a bit of an upset stomach, too, now that he thought of it. This certainly wasn’t the first time Pestilence had made him ill as a practical joke, and knowing the bastard, the situation would probably get to be far worse than just a bellyache, so Crowley made the mental note to be extra careful for the next few days. But for now, he had other things to attend to.

He made his coffee, far more carefully than usual this time just in case something went horribly wrong and he ended up on the ground. Coffee stains were a bitch to get rid of, even for a demon.

Just as he was finally sitting down, coffee in hand- two sugars, one cream, just like usual- the telephone rang from across the room. Crowley sighed, placing his drink on the coffee table before shuffling to the phone and putting the handset to his ear.

“Wotcher?”

“Given up on acting like a New Yorker, eh?” Aziraphale laughed through the phone, his own English accent just a bit more refined than Crowley’s vaguely Cockney one.

“Pretty much. How’d you know I’d be awake?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Huh. Well, what’s goin’ on, then? You need to cancel for tonight?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to ask how your nose was doing.”

“Oh. Just about fine. Got some blood on my pillow, but it could certainly be worse. You get back to the bookshop all right last night?”

“And you say I’m the fussy one. Yes, I got home all in one piece. I’m calling you, aren’t I?”

Crowley hummed in agreement, wishing he had brought his coffee as his mouth fumbled for something to do.

“Customer,” Aziraphale said quickly, “got to be going. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Oh. Um, yea-”

The line went dead.

Crowley let the handset fall back into the receiver, slumping over to the couch with a disappointed groan. His hands quivered lightly as he put the coffee mug to his lips, taking a drawn-out sip and almost immediately coughing it back up. The fit of coughs lasted for at least a good thirty seconds before he spat out a small clot of blood. No, not quite... Crowley’s brow furrowed as he inspected it closer.

A yellow flower.

Crowley scoffed, tossing the flower into the garbage can and walking briskly to the bathroom to wash his hands. Was that _really_ the best that Pestilence had for him? A flower or two? It felt a bit juvenile, especially for his last big hurrah before retirement; the Horseman’s pranks were usually far more elaborate than some silly flora.

The rest of his morning was spent mostly milling around the flat. He brushed his teeth (another unnecessary practice he’d gotten into the habit of over the years) and precisely slicked his hair back. It probably could’ve used a trim, but he was beginning to grow fond of having it just a bit longer.

Around 2:00, thoroughly bored of sitting around, he whipped his sunglasses on and walked the two blocks down to the beach. Living so close to Coney Island certainly had its cons, but getting to watch the workers close the place down for the winter was well worth the late summer nights full of drunken chatter outside his window and annoying tourists asking for directions.

Crowley slipped a metal flask out of his pocket, taking a swig of the scotch inside as he sat on the curb in front of the park’s entrance. He watched through the gate as workers in overalls and hats took down signs, double- and triple-checked the rides, and wiped down tables at the food courts.

His brief moment of leisure was interrupted by a tickle at the back of his throat. He coughed, feeling quite like a cat with a hairball as he attempted to hack up the perturbation in his esophagus. He eventually gave up, sticking his finger into the back of his throat and gagging as he pulled out another bloody petal, this time in a rich purple hue.

The petal remained abandoned on the roadside as he sauntered his way back to his apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley share lunch at a restaurant in Manhattan. Crowley's situation worsens the longer they're there, leading to a dawning realization on his part that he does his best to hide from the already nervous angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Lyrics at the beginning are from the song "Under My Skin" by Frank Sinatra)
> 
> Sorry this took so long, I sort of got lost but now I'm back on track!

“Come _on!”_ Crowley growled, fumbling with the dials on the car’s AM radio, desperately searching for some semblance of music. Despite being generally proficient with technology, he had yet to fully get a handle on the stupid thing, and vague fumbling was just about the best he could bet on.

Eventually, he managed to tune into a station. Frank Sinatra’s warmly comforting timbre crackled through the speakers.

“ _Don’t you know, little fool,_

_You can never win._

_Use your mentality,_

_Wake up to reality._

_But each time I do, just the thought of you_

_Makes me stop before I begin,_

_‘Cause I’ve got you under my skin.”_

His car (which he had recently decided to dub The Bentley, since it sounded official) pulled up to the curb in front of Delmonico’s, a restaurant in Lower Manhattan that Aziraphale had recommended they meet at for that night’s rendezvous about a week prior.

Said angel was sitting expectantly on a bench in front of the building, and he stood with a smile as Crowley stepped onto the pavement. The demon grinned back, taking particular care to leave a few irritating scuff marks on the concrete as he walked to his friend. 

“Afternoon, angel,” he greeted, his hands jammed into the pockets of his slacks.

“Afternoon,” Aziraphale smiled back, leading the way towards the entrance. He held the door open, allowing Crowley to enter first.

Crowley felt a dull ache begin to blossom in his chest.

The two sat at a circular table near the back beside a window facing the silhouette of Wall Street a few blocks away. A simple green cloth covered the table in front of them, coated with plates and silverware that seemed a bit over the top. Crowley squirmed slightly, trying to work around the natural discomfort of his chair.

“Not quite the Ritz, is it?” the demon joked, picking up one of the five forks lying in front of him. “Trying awfully hard to be, though.”

“I suppose. It’s not quite fair to compare any restaurant to the Ritz, really. I mean, there’s no fair comparison, is there?”

“Not a single one. Wine’s on me tonight, by the way.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Aziraphale scoffed, his eyes scanning the menu in front of him. “You paid last night.”

“Yes, and if you’ll remember, I proceeded to get us kicked out after getting into a fistfight with a fellow patron over a half-empty bowl of stale peanuts and an ownerless quarter left on the bar. Think of this as a compensation of sorts.”

Aziraphale didn’t argue further.

They ordered their wine and meals. Well, Aziraphale ordered a meal; despite all his time on Earth, Crowley had never grown incredibly fond of food. He’d have a snack here and there, and he was certainly known to have his fair share of drink, but meals were never something he felt inclined to indulge in.

“I, erm. I got a note last night,” Crowley began, awkwardly pouring himself a shallow glass of red wine. “From, uh. From Pestilence.”

Aziraphale coughed, spitting the wine in his mouth back into his glass before staring at Crowley with wide eyes.

“What for? Another one of his silly games? Oh, dear, don’t tell me he’s made you ill again-”

“No,” Crowley lied quickly, not wanting to upset the principality. “No, not sick. Most certainly not. Tip-top shape, I’m in, perfectly swell, really, I’m feeling dandy. Just turns out he’s retiring and felt inclined to inform me, for some reason." 

“I didn’t know they could _retire,_ ” Aziraphale cocked his head to one side, puzzled. “So, what’s that mean? Nobody’s going to get sick anymore?” 

“Dunno. It’s never happened before. I mean, it’s not every day that one of the Four Horsemen throws in the towel, is it?”

“I suppose not. That’d be nice, though, wouldn’t it? If they _all_ retired and all of the war and the famine stopped completely? It’d save everyone a load of trouble,” Aziraphale said with a warm smile, one that made Crowley’s shirt feel just a bit tighter and his lungs a tad too full.

“That it would,” Crowley agreed, followed by a brief but violent cough. He brushed away the fleck of blood that landed on his hand.

A waiter came by a few minutes later carrying a plate and a fresh bottle of wine. Aziraphale thanked him before setting his napkin precisely in his lap. Crowley likely would have thanked the waiter, too, if he had been paying attention. At the moment, he was a bit preoccupied with trying to keep the petals building up in his throat from surfacing.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale piped up, his eyebrows furrowed. “You look upset.”

“Fine,” Crowley croaked, barely managing to squeeze the word out. He cleared his throat, rather obnoxiously, and managed to clear his airway enough to speak properly. “Just something caught in my throat, that’s all.”

Aziraphale hummed, chewing a bite of steak and swallowing before speaking up once again. “Are you absolutely certain you’re not sick? You look _very_ flushed.” 

“ _Yesss,_ angel, I’m fine,” Crowley insisted, irritation creeping into his voice. “Jussst forget it.”

“I don’t trust that Pestilence,” the angel persisted with a grumble. “Really, it’s better to be safe than sorry with this sort of thing, are you certain you wouldn’t rather just go back to the bookshop and rest?” 

The concern in the angel’s voice was nice, it really was, but it was doing the opposite of helping Crowley’s situation. He coughed violently into his sleeve, grimacing at the scarlet stain that was left behind before hiding his arm under the table. 

“Okay, fine, but only if it’ll make you ssstop worrying,” Crowley conceded, accidentally hissing as he poured his concentration into trying not to spew any more blood on himself. Aziraphale called over the waiter for the check while Crowley unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, trying to get as much pressure off of his throat as he could.

They walked out quickly, Crowley stumbling as he led the way to the Bentley. The stabbing pain in his chest was making it harder and harder to concentrate. He threw the driver’s side door open before finding himself standing in the back room of Aziraphale’s most recent bookshop, his arm hanging awkwardly in the air.

“Sorry about that,” Aziraphale said quickly, shrugging his coat off before seating a severely disoriented Crowley on his old couch. “It was easier to just miracle us back. You’re in no driving condition.”

Crowley startled the angel as he shot into a standing position, suddenly thrown into a blind panic. “Fuck, I left the top of the Bentley down, someone’s gonna steal it, angel, I need to-”

“And now it’s up,” Aziraphale interrupted with a click of his fingers. “You lie down right here, and I’ll be back in a second. Hopefully, I’m just overreacting, but in the event I’m not, you shouldn’t be moving around too much.” 

Aziraphale walked swiftly out the door and up the steps, likely looking for his frequently misplaced tea kettle.

Being in the bookshop somehow made things infinitely worse. The familiar smell, the same old books, that stupid tartan pattern on most everything in sight, the whole damn building reeked of… of whatever was making his day Hell. Or pretty close to Hell, at least.

He hoped that the connection he was beginning to draw was merely a figment of his imagination. 

Crowley coughed, and he coughed, each one more violent than the last until he managed to dislodge an intact purple flower from his throat. He tried to will it away, but the bloody flora persisted, remaining in his hand no matter how hard he tried. Footsteps began to pad their way back down the steps. Crowley quickly hid the flower in his pocket. 

“I can’t find the kettle, but the good news is that I can just miracle some tea for you, so that whole escapade was just a waste of time in the first place,” Aziraphale sighed, conjuring a cup full of steaming tea. “It’s ginger, it should help bring your fever down.”

“Thanks, angel, really, I mean it, but I can’t stay,” Crowley said quickly, stumbling to his feet. “Things to do, you know how it is. Always busy. I owe you... I dunno, something. We’ll figure it out later. Ciao!”

He sped out the door before Aziraphale could make much of a fuss, the jingle of the bookshop’s bell barely present under the annoying din of the New York City streets.

Aziraphale was right; he was in no condition to drive. Barely in a condition to walk, really. But he persevered, sure he looked positively smashed as he weaved and tripped his way through the throngs of pedestrians that crowded the pavement, walking in what he hoped was the general direction of his flat.

If you were to ask 1,000 New Yorkers to describe the air in Manhattan, it is incredibly unlikely that anyone would say anything remotely close to “refreshing.”

But Go- Sa- _fuck’s_ sake, was it refreshing to Crowley. After being trapped in the stuffy familiarity of the bookshop, the heavy, garbage-scented air was better than anything he could have possibly dreamt of. He focused on his (technically unnecessary) breathing as he mumbled out apologies for stepping on toes and bumping into briefcases, keeping a gentle _in, out, in, out_ mantra running through his head to distract from the spiral tearing at his abdomen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale huffed under his breath, setting the neglected cup of tea on an antique end table before beginning to pace the length of the back room.

There was no point going after him, there’d be no use. Crowley was a stubborn bastard, after all, and as much as he would’ve liked to, Aziraphale knew that chasing him down would be no use.

Give him a call? No, he would just say he was doing fine and hang up.

Well, he could… he could go to Crowley’s apartment himself. Yes, that could work! Meet him there, then Crowley would have the comfort of his apartment along with someone to stay with him just in case something went awry. He didn’t even bother to factor in Crowley’s excuse that he was “busy.” For being a demon, he could be a downright dreadful liar at times.

As Aziraphale was slipping into the back of a yellow- and red-painted taxi, he contemplated whether he was being… what was the word… paranoid. Or perhaps it was overprotective. Either way, he might have been going a bit overboard.

But, to be fair, Aziraphale’s worry wasn’t _completely unwarranted_. The last time Crowley had fallen ill by Pestilence’s hand was way back in 1790; the demon had been visiting the colony of Pennsylvania for a quick job, something about tempting a politician to cheat on his wife with a married woman. The infectious Horseman had caught up with Crowley and asked if he wanted in on an epidemic of yellow fever he was planning for three Augusts from then. 

Crowley had declined, and the next morning he woke to find a cheeky note on his bedside table and looked around to discover that he had been sick all over the room in the middle of the night. He could barely muster the energy to will it all away before collapsing into his pillows, thanking somebody that this inn had decent bedding and owners who kept out of their customers’ business. A good old-fashioned bloodletting was the last thing he needed. 

Luckily for the demon, Aziraphale happened to be in town as well, and the two had planned a meeting for that day. The angel entered Crowley’s room at the inn to find him curled up on his mattress, a blank expression on his face as his hands clawed desperately at the ache in the pit of his stomach.

After 9 days, at least 40 small pain-relieving miracles, and a copious amount of jokes about Crowley’s eye color, the bout of yellow fever dissipated, and the two were able to return home to England.

The experience had scared Aziraphale just about to death. The daunting possibility of Crowley being discorporated from the illness was bad enough, but watching his friend dip in and out of consciousness, watching him flicker between wispy laughter and body-shaking agony, was something he _never_ wanted to see again. Never wanted Crowley to have to go through again. 

There was little Aziraphale would have loved more than to sock Pestilence upside the head, but he was only one angel, which wasn’t much up against a Horseman.

So caring for Crowley was about the best form of rebellion he had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!! I had to rewrite this three times because I couldn't get it right, plus it's significantly longer than the previous two chapters (oops). Hopefully, updates will be more regular from now on!
> 
> (I've also decided to just not give the chapters titles because I'm Stupid)

Crowley threw open the door of the lobby, startling the young woman behind the front desk as he quickly teetered to the stairwell. The apartment complex had yet to install an elevator for residents, much to Crowley’s chagrin. He took the steps two at a time, the stabbing in his chest flaring further and further with each awkward hop.

Why did he have to live in the fucking penthouse?

Finally, _finally,_ he fell through his front door, almost forgetting to close it behind him as he made a beeline for the bin he kept in the kitchen. Flowers exploded from his lungs almost instantaneously, a steady stream of blood accompanying them on their unceremonious fall into the bin. 

His throat was on fire, like it was being torn to shreds from the inside out. His lungs weren’t in much better shape.

It must have been five minutes before he was finished, staring disgustedly at the mess he had made. 

There were a handful of the same small purple and yellow flowers, along with a medium-sized pink rose. It was surrounded by small thorns, all of them coated in the blood they had drawn from Crowley’s throat on their way out. 

Blood from the slashes was beginning to pour into his stomach, which certainly wasn’t helping his stomach ache. He took a few deep breaths, thankful that demonic healing (much like angelic) was incredibly sped-up compared to that of a human. The damage would likely be reversed by the next morning

There was a knock at the door.

“Crowley?” a familiar voice called, accompanied by another frenzied knock.

Crowley wiped his mouth on his hand, hiding the bin behind the kitchen counter and out of sight before limping to the door.

“Oh my goodness, dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked the moment the door opened, his expression falling deeper into panic. “You’re pale as a ghost, did you walk all the way home?”

“M’fine,” Crowley rasped, barely able to push the sound past the ragged flesh of his esophagus. “Don’t... worry. ‘Bout me. Y’should head back to the sh… shop.”

Aziraphale was blatantly horrified. The angel had always worn his heart on his sleeve, which could be helpful at times, but as of now, his emotive face was only serving to make Crowley feel even more like shit than he already did.

Aziraphale placed the back of his hand against Crowley’s forehead to check his temperature, his brows thoroughly laced in worry.

Crowley slammed the door in Aziraphale’s face, careful to lock it before he collapsed over the sink, gagging as more and more petals came spilling out of him, all of them doused in blood and, eventually, tears.

Fear was not something the demon had often experienced. There had only been one instance, in his entire 5,940 years, that he had been genuinely terrified, and it wasn’t a time he often felt the need to reminisce on. The icy fist currently gripping his chest reminded him of that, clouding his cognitive thoughts to the point where he could feel it all over again. 

The rush of air around him. The agonizing pain in what was once his wings. The scream stolen from his throat as he moved farther and farther from the light.

He slid unceremoniously onto the kitchen tile, one hand clamped solidly over his mouth and the other desperately clenched over his heart, checking to make sure that it was still beating. Holding his breath, he waited to hear angry footsteps moving away from his door. They never came. 

A different sound, on the other hand, did.

“Dear,” Aziraphale called softly through the door, “I want you to call me when… _if_ you need me, okay? Anything at all. I… I trust you to do that. Alright?” He waited for a response.

“...Alright,” he whispered when no response came. “I’ll be at the bookshop if you’d rather just come over. See you soon, I hope.”

And then the sound of the footsteps came.

Crowley staggered to his feet, leaning against the kitchen counter for support. 

Why couldn’t Aziraphale just be angry with him? At least Crowley knew how to handle that. But sympathy? Hell, that was far from anything Crowley knew how to deal with.

He spent the next thirty minutes or so leaning against the counter with a blank expression, doing his best to remind himself that this was Now, and not Then. That Then could never, ever happen again. 

Aziraphale’s words reverberated in Crowley’s head, even as he sat on the sofa with a makeshift ice pack over his throat. 

_“Call me if you need me. I trust you.”_

Crowley had no intention of bothering Aziraphale while he was in this… state. It was fairly obvious that this whole issue was somehow connected to Aziraphale, so keeping some safe distance for the time being seemed like the best course of action. Keeping distance and getting to the bottom of the whole damn thing.

Crowley summoned a book into his hand, an ancient and almost completely blank address book with a leather cover.  He opened it to the front page, and there it was, plain as day:

 

**_Asshole_ **

~~_Pestilence_ ~~ _, 714 Leyden Ave, Staten Island, New York City, New York_

 

Pestilence had given him the book around 1350, right after the end of the Black Plague. The two had first met one another in a run-down tavern in Scotland. They had chatted for a while, and eventually Pestilence mentioned that he was having trouble coming up with a fun way of spreading a new disease he had come up with.

It was Crowley’s idea to use the rats.

Pestilence, impressed with Crowley’s inventiveness, gave him the book in case the demon ever felt compelled to do his job for him again. It wasn’t just a regular address book, obviously; the words would change to fit wherever Pestilence happened to be living at that point in time. 

Crowley hated to admit it, but his hand in inspiring (and later refining) the Black Plague had been caused by sheer, unadulterated boredom. He had figured, hey, nothing interesting’s happening, how about we get that fixed up? But, interesting as the plague was, it was also sickening and, overall, not a very pleasant time to be in England.

He hadn’t talked to Pestilence since… 1790? That sounded about right. Sometime just before the yellow fever outbreak in Philadelphia, anyway. Crowley had, quite reasonably, cut ties with Pestilence after that nightmare of a week. 

So he wasn’t exactly excited to visit him again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Fortunately, Crowley’s prediction had been correct, and his throat was completely healed by the morning. Unfortunately, the cuts were very much prevalent throughout the night, so he was unable to get his usual beauty sleep. 

Sleep wasn’t really a _necessity_ , per se, but he had been doing it for so long that his brain still felt a bit mushy as the sun peeked up over the horizon. 

Crowley changed his clothes, not bothering with a hat. Or suspenders. Or a tie, for that matter. Honestly, it was a miracle he was even going out at all and not just moping around the flat all day. 

But answers were currently higher on his list of priorities than comfort, so a nice morning nap and some comfier clothes would have to wait until _after_ he sorted things out with Pestilence.

The Bentley was, quite miraculously, resting beside the curb in front of the apartment complex. Crowley grinned bitterly as he slipped into the familiar driver’s seat, leaving his seatbelt undone as he pulled out of the spot and made his way for the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge that connected Brooklyn to Staten Island.

Leyden Avenue, Crowley remembered, was somewhere in the northwest corner of the island, which really wasn’t much of help given how many side streets and back alleys there are in the Big Apple. After 20 minutes of blindly turning corners and twice asking a pedestrian for directions (both of whom shrugged and spat on the ground before walking away), he managed to find the elusive avenue and parked in front of building number 714. 

The house was mostly fine at first glance. Old and chipped, but nothing outwardly wrong with it. It was once you got a closer look that you were likely to notice the mold growing in the crevices between the bricks, or the hoards of small bugs clustered on the window sills, or even the strange smell of antiseptic and sweat that encapsulated the whole building.

Crowley knocked on the door, then wiped his hand on his pants.

A few seconds passed.

“Just a moment!” a voice called from somewhere in the house, followed by soft footsteps and the sound of three locks being undone. A familiar face, scrunched up in its confusion, poked its head outside.

“Ahh, Crowley,” Pestilence grinned, his cracked lips parting to reveal stained teeth and a yellowed tongue. “I was expecting you at some point, but certainly not so soo-”

“Cut the shit,” Crowley growled, fixing his posture so he was drawn to his full height. Pestilence was relatively short, standing at a mere 5’4”, but his presence was just as intimidating as any of the other Horsemen’s. 

“Touchy, touchy,” the former Horseman said lightly, standing aside to allow Crowley to entire the foyer. “Come on in, let’s make this quick. Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t have personal matters to attend to.”

Crowley took his steps cautiously. Pestilence’s house was a very appropriate reflection of him as a person- well, humanoid entity. The carpet was stained, the furniture was all very old and a bit torn, the wallpaper was peeling. The house truly reflects the owner, it seems.

Pestilence sat on an old armchair tucked into the corner of the family room, then gestured for Crowley to sit on the couch across from him. Crowley remained standing.

“It’s been a while,” Pestilence began, running a hand through his short mustard-colored hair. “Since the colonies, it’s been, hasn’t it? Lord Almighty, that really was a while ago. What’ve you been doing since then, hmm?”

“Sleeping,” Crowley responded curtly. “Now, really, I want to know-”

“You always did like to sleep,” Pestilence interrupted, a certain air of curiosity clear in his tone. “Never understood it myself. Right waste of time, sleeping is. Doesn’t do a thing for you, unless you’re mortal.”

This, _this_ was what made Pestilence by far the most annoying of the Horsemen. Not only was he a disgusting being in general, but he was so damn charismatic. Crowley hated being interrupted, hated it to his core, but when Pest did it, it felt so stupidly natural that it was hard to bring himself to be more angry than he already was. Not impossible, but certainly difficult

Pestilence’s personality was… well, _infectious._

“Yeah, right, waste of time. Now, can we please talk about what the hell you did to me?”

“Ahh, moving a bit fast,” Pestilence tutted, wagging a finger at Crowley as if he were a naughty tabby cat caught eating out of the bin. “No, I think we ought to make our way there naturally, hmm? Now, surely you can’t have been sleeping since 1790. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve _really_ been up to? Hanging around with your little angel, I presume?”

Crowley bit his tongue, trying his very hardest not to punch Pest in his stupid, rash-covered face. He may have been retired, but he still possessed the power of a Horseman. He could destroy Crowley without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow.

“He’s not _my_ angel,” Crowley said quietly, the pain in his chest beginning to resurface at the mention of Aziraphale. “He’s his own being. And besides, I really was sleeping for most of that time. Fell asleep in 1824, woke up in 1902. Moved around a bit, stayed in England ‘til about 1910, then lived in Ireland for a few years before moving to Brooklyn. Simple as that. Now, can we please get to the reason why I’m here in the first place?”

Pestilence pursed his lips, clearly deriving some sort of sick pleasure from seeing Crowley so clearly desperate.

“Alright,” Pest finally conceded, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees. “What are your symptoms, then, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley glared at him, heaving a breath through his nose before crossing his arms over his chest. “You did this, you know damn well what my symptoms are.”

“Haven’t the faintest,” Pestilence sighed, cocking his head. “So many different illnesses, so many people to make sick, I tend to lose track. Now, no symptoms, no diagnosis, so you really best hurry up. I have to be somewhere in a half an hour.”

“Coughing up flowers and fucking blood,” Crowley snapped, digging his nails into his forearms. “That enough symptoms for you?”

“Maybe. Anything else?”

“I don’t fucking know, shortness of breath. Insomnia. Scratchy throat, whatever the fuck. You know exactly what this is, I know you do, so just tell me!”

“Oh, yes. Of course I know.” Pest’s grin was smug, unnaturally knowing, and made Crowley want to shove his fist through the drywall behind him.

“But the real question is,” Pestilence said abruptly, standing from his seat, “do _you_ know?”

Crowley stared at him, searching for any hint of sanity in the ex-Horseman’s devilish smile.

“...No, I don’t fucking know, that’s what I’m here for, dumbassss,” Crowley hissed, subconsciously baring his fangs in his frustration. 

“Oh, come on. You must have at least an _idea_ of what’s going on,” Pestilence said, walking nonchalantly past Crowley and into the small kitchen that branched off from the living room. Crowley followed him.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Just tell me, and I’ll be out of your hair!”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Pestilence asked, hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter. “It’s _infinitely_ more entertaining if you get to figure it out on your own. So, go on, then. What is it you’ve figured out, O Prophet?”

Crowley hesitated. He was pretty certain he had figured out… well, he had figured out _something._ The connection wasn’t exactly subtle, after all, and he wasn’t a _complete_ idiot. He hesitated not because he was uncertain or at a loss for words, but rather because he didn’t want to hear the answer to the question that had kept him awake for the entirety of the previous night.

“...It’s got to do with Aziraphale, hasn’t it?” he finally spoke up, purposefully avoiding eye contact.

“Bingo!” Pestilence laughed, slipping back off of the counter and patting Crowley on the face as he walked past him. “Spectacular deduction, Mr. Holmes! Really, I don’t know _how_ you do it.

“Now that you’ve got that sorted out, I’m going to need you to leave. Have a nice drive home, you should be able to beat the late morning traffic if you really get a move on.” He pushed the door open, looking expectantly at Crowley as he waited for him to walk out.

“...But why?” Crowley asked, mildly dumbfounded by Pest’s quick and nonchalant answer. “Why him? Why _me?_ ”

Pestilence rolled his eyes, shutting the door with a frustrated huff. “You really _are_ dense,” he grumbled, walking back into the living room and collapsing onto his beaten couch. 

“What do you mean, _I’m_ dense?” Crowley cried, swiftly following Pestilence, his eyes wide as the moon. “You’re the one saying all the cryptic shit and expecting me to know what the heavens you’re trying to tell me!”

Pestilence’s usual smirk overtook his face, his eyelids lowered in the most patronizing manner possible. 

“You really want me to spell it out for you?” he asked slowly, as if he were talking to a preschooler throwing a tantrum rather than an almost 6,000-year old supernatural being.  
Crowley nodded.

“Well,” Pestilence started, “the long and short of it is that I’ve seen you and the angel hanging around together for quite a while, and I made the mistake of getting mildly invested. Not in, like, a creepy way or anything. You two just always happen to be where I am, and I took notice.”

“Oh, yeah, not creepy at all.”  
  
“Do you want to know how to get out of your predicament, or do you want to be a jackass?”

“...Continue. I’ll shut up.”

“Fantastic. So, as I was saying, watching the two of you interact is like reading a shitty romance story written by a lonely 16-year old girl. You know, lots of forlorn glances and almost touching hands, and _ooh, the DRAMA!_ ” He made a gagging noise before continuing.

“I was getting tired of it, and I was planning to do something about it, but then Death got on my case about using my powers for stupid pranks too often, and, well, you don’t want to get on Death’s bad side. So I just sort of suffered through for another century or so.

“When I decided it was my time to retire, I realized that they probably wouldn’t care much how I used my remaining days, so I used my last real _plague_ to sort of give you a nudge. And here we are!”

He was smiling again. Not smirking, not grinning, but a full-blown, look-how-good-I’ve-done smile.  

Crowley stared at him.

“...A nudge,” he said slowly.

“Precisely.”

“A nudge towards what?” Crowley asked, exasperation beginning to resurface. 

Now it was Pestilence’s turn to stare.

“You’re joking, right? Were you listening to a _word_ I just said?”

“Of course I was listening, I just-“

“You’re going to give me a fucking stroke,” Pest groaned, running a hand over his face. “I’m going to make this… literally as simple as it can be. 

“You’re in love with him. And you’re a little bitch, so you refuse to say it. And I couldn’t stand watching you try to bullshit your way through that anymore, so I’m using this disease as a way to get you two to hook up. Capiche?”

Crowley paused. His breath stuttered to a halt, his eyes wide and unblinking behind his sunglasses as his stomach plummeted into his shoes.

Pestilence quirked an impatient eyebrow, his arm casually resting across the back of the couch. 

“Did that clear things up for you, then?” he asked condescendingly. “Help you get a better grasp of what you need to do? Because I’m not giving you anything more than that. I’ve already told you far more than I would’ve liked, but that’s life, I suppose. Now-”

Crowley didn’t stay to hear the end of his sentence, instead pushing his way through the front door and throwing himself into the driver’s seat of the Bentley. He didn’t bother to look back as he slammed his foot on the gas, rocketing back to the dull comfort of his Brooklyn apartment.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Crowley muttered, a semi-frantic look in his eye as he swerved between cars, not paying any mind to the lines that separated the lanes of the road. “He’s fucking mental, that’s it, he’s gone senile and he thinks this is all a big game. A great, funny fucking _game._ Trying to tell me that I’m in lo- that I’m- _interested_  in Aziraphale, for someone’s sake, ”

The Bentley swerved onto West 3rd Street, finding its spot in front of the apartment complex conveniently empty. Crowley took a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself, his chest tightening further and further the more he replayed the conversation with Pest in his head. 

After a few seconds, he miracled himself into his flat with a sigh of resignation.

No way in Hell was he going up those stairs again.


	4. Chapter 4

Wind and rain thrashed against the east-facing windows of the flat. Crowley leaned against one of those windows, watching as the drops raced one another from the top of the pane to the bottom. He had been watching for the better part of an hour and had been home for the worse part of three.

Pestilence’s words had shaken Crowley. He never would have admitted it to anyone- he was hesitant to even admit it to himself- but it was the truth, and no amount of lying or attempted repression would let him forget the way his heart had practically stopped when the words came out of the ex-Horseman’s mouth.

_ “You’re in love with him.” _

Crowley’s lungs felt like they were on the verge of caving in on themselves as he finally stepped away from the window, his hand sore from leaning against the sill for so long, and resumed his pacing.

The flat had already been thoroughly paced through over the past few hours, causing the carpet to begin to ruffle and even come apart in some places. Crowley was a notorious pacer, and a vigorous one at that. He made a quick mental note to fix the carpet later.

His hand had ghosted over the telephone at least twelve times over this prolonged period of pacing, his lower lip being chewed nearly through as he contemplated whether he should call Aziraphale or just let him be. 

I mean, Pest couldn’t possibly be  _ right,  _ could he? He wasn’t the most trustworthy to begin with, and besides, even if he thought he was telling the truth, his words simply couldn’t be true. 

All demons are incapable of being loved, that’s what Beelzebub and the other leaders of Hell had always told the Fallen. They weren’t exactly the most reliable lot, but when you’re consistently told something for six millennia, it’s sort of hard to believe anything else. 

So, really, rejection was inevitable. And that sort of inevitability was almost reassuring, despite the sting that came with it. Whether he told Aziraphale or not, the verdict would be exactly the same, ending with both of them romantically unattached and maybe a bit on the grumpy side.

Once he had made that stellar conclusion, it felt much easier to pick up the phone and dial Aziraphale’s number. A moment of regret flickered across his mind as the phone rang, but he managed to brush it away when he heard the  _ click _ of the phone being answered.

“Hello?” Aziraphale said, a sort of strange hollowness present in his tone. Probably just the phone line doing strange things.

“Hey, angel, it’s me. I just, uh-”

A sudden pop sounded behind him, causing Crowley to whip around and drop the handset. He was met with a very concerned-looking Aziraphale, his usual bow tie and jacket missing and the top button of his shirt undone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Crowley startled, his hip bumping into the table the phone sat on as he staggered backwards.

“I told you earlier to call me if you needed me,” Aziraphale said, taken aback by Crowley’s reaction. “I figured that you called because you needed me…?”

“No! Well- no, not like that, not that I don’t, but that’s not why I called.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked relieved, as well as slightly puzzled, as the tenseness in his shoulders began to edge away. “Why did you call, then?”

“To tell you that I’m going to be fine,” Crowley said, trying his best to take deep breaths but being consistently thwarted by the invisible anaconda constricting his ribs. “I went and talked to Pest. Just another stupid prank, some flu-like symptoms. Should be back on my feet soon.” He shuffled a few steps back, trying to escape the strange, restrictive aura that seemed to emanate off of the angel.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, his face breaking into a small, worried smile. “Well, I’m glad it’s nothing too terrible. Are the symptoms contagious?”

Crowley blanked. He had never thought to ask if it was  _ contagious _ . That had been the least of his worries at the time. 

“I don’t know,” Crowley admitted. “Why?”

“I’m not exactly eager to catch whatever it is you’ve got, you know,” Aziraphale joked, his hands fiddling uselessly in front of him. “It would be nice to know whether I need to keep some safe distance or not.”

“...Tell you what,” Crowley started, “I still don’t feel great, so I’m probably going to take a quick nap. Only a week or so, I promise. When I wake up, I’ll call you. Whether I’m well or not. If I am, great, that’s that. If not, I’ll wear a mask or something in case it is contagious, and we can hang around the bookshop or something if you’d like. Is that alright?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, mulling over the proposal before slowly nodding his head in agreement.

“I suppose that… I have lots of work to get to anyway, so that works quite... you know, you having some time to recover and me having some time to get used to the new shop, what with it only having been a few months since… yes, that sounds like a great idea! Very convenient for the both of us, I’d say. Right, well, I’ll see you in a week or so! Try not to oversleep!”

With that, the angel was gone, just as quickly as he’d arrived. 

“...Well, that happened,” Crowley muttered to himself, blinking slowly in an attempt to process the mixed-up jumble of words Aziraphale had spat at him before departing. 

After placing the handset back where it belonged, Crowley trudged his way to his room and threw himself onto his bed. The black silk sheets greeted him happily, the fabric enveloping him as he allowed himself to relax, if only partially. 

He really hated lying to Aziraphale. Lying to an angel never felt  _ great _ \- something about holy guilt- but Aziraphale was on a whole other level. He was more trusting than any angel ever had been, and likely ever would be, which made it incredibly difficult to deceive him without feeling like an insignificant speck of dirt.

But Crowley had done just that. He had been telling the truth about the week-long nap (although he would probably cheat just a bit and sleep for 9 days,  _ maybe _ 10 if he was feeling ballsy). But after that, his entire offer had been complete and utter bullshit.

He wasn’t going to call Aziraphale when he woke up. He wasn’t going to wear a stupid surgeon’s mask. He wasn’t even going to leave the flat, if he could help it.

No, he was going to stay exactly where he was until this _thing_ blew over on its own. All diseases work their way out of a person’s system eventually, either by killing the victim or by miraculously going on their merry way (but only after causing the victim a good deal of displeasure).  


Crowley certainly had no intention of letting some stupid  _ plants _ discorporate him, so clearly there was only one option as to what would become of the disease currently plaguing him.

 

~~~~~~

 

Sleep turned out to be far more elusive than he had expected. Turns out that stabbing pain in one’s lungs tends to keep them awake, especially when said pain is exacerbated by thinking of someone that is  _ constantly on one’s mind _ .

It was sort of shocking how often Aziraphale popped up in his train of thought, really. Anything could be connected to the angel eventually, and it seemed that most things did in the end.

Thinking about dogs? Aziraphale loved them, especially the smaller ones. Thinking about snow? Aziraphale  _ loved _ snow (Crowley, on the other hand, couldn’t stand it). Thinking about… crepes? Okay, that one’s obvious, but  _ still. _ It was like playing Five Degrees of Separation by himself.

Except this game of Five Degrees was making his lungs feel like they were being thrown into a paper shredder. Not a very fun game, to say the least.

Eventually, Crowley conceded and simply miracled himself to sleep. It wasn’t usually his go-to solution, given how easily it could go awry. The last time he’d miracled himself to sleep, he’d been unconscious for almost a century. Too bad, really. The 1800s sounded interesting.

But there was no way in Heaven or Hell alike he was going to get any rest without the help of a little demonic intervention, so he just crossed his fingers and hoped he’d be able to wake up at a reasonable time and not in the year 2045.

His vision was black for maybe 30 seconds before he opened his eyes again. He was still in his bed, still sprawled out like a starfish, although his wings had apparently decided to unfold themselves and were now draped lazily below him. 

Crowley sat up, rubbing lazily at his eyes with the heels of his palms as he began to collect himself. He wondered vaguely how long it had been since he fell asleep, his mind still a bit fuzzy as he slunk out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.

It was halfway there that he realized the pain in his abdomen was gone completely, as though it had never been there to begin with. Naturally skeptical, Crowley shut his eyes and thought for a moment.

Thought of the first rain in Eden, and of drinks shared in Rome, and of listening to General Washington recite the Declaration of Independence for the first time.

His chest remained painless.

Crowley let a grin split his face in two, his usual confident swagger returning as he walked over to the refrigerator. He had been right! Of course he had, sleep had never failed him before, and it didn’t seem like it was going to start now. 

The door to the fridge slid open to reveal that the interior was perfectly, positively empty.

Crowley’s lips pursed as he stuck his head forward just a bit. He’d gone grocery shopping last week, where the Hell had everything gone? It probably wouldn’t have been good anymore, anyway, depending on how long he’d been asleep, but it wouldn’t just up and  _ disappear. _

He stalked his way through the rest of the flat, noticing small imperfections here and there. The couch was against a different wall than before. The radio, previously small and black, was now a brilliant cherry red and about the size of a large cat. The bathroom had somehow disappeared as if it had never been there in the first place.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed into almost nonexistent slits, his lips pulled tight into a snarl as his wings were drawn defensively against his back. Something was  _ very _ wrong here. Either he had been robbed by some very strange and eccentric burglars, or someone- some _ thing _ \- was messing with him.

He went to take a step towards the guest room before he felt the floor give out underneath him. 

And he was falling again. 

His wings felt like they were going to shrivel in on themselves, the delicate feathers unable to withstand the force being put on them by the air shredding past. Crowley fought to draw them in, to conceal them within the pocket of ether that usually hid them, but they fought back and only spread themselves wider.

The void below him seemed endless, allowing him to fall for what could have been years or could have been seconds- he couldn’t tell. 

Just as he was beginning to recollect himself, slowing his breathing to a semi-normal rate and realizing he could just miracle himself to safety, his back smashed into the ground. Crowley cried out in pain as his wings shattered, the predominantly hollow bones easily snapping into pieces as they made contact with the ground below him.

The floor was coated in a thin veil of water that easily soaked through his feathers and clothes. Blood spilled from his busted wings and disappeared almost instantly, the red liquid dissipating and dispersing itself through the crystal clear water.

By this point, cognitive thinking had been thrown out the window completely, and Crowley’s only thought was to get out. To get somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t  _ here. _ Because Here was clearly very, very bad. 

Crowley shakily got to his feet, his wings trailing lamely behind him. A bolt of pain shot through him with each limping step he took. The void around him was… well, just that. 

A void. It didn’t end, didn’t start, didn’t seem to exist at all. Like some sort of glitch in the overall fabric of the universe.

A cry sounded from behind him, right on the edge of being familiar, but not quite there. He turned, took a step towards the sound, then waited. It was after the cry came for a second time that he took off running in the direction of the sound, the familiarity suddenly clicking.

“Aziraphale?” he called, his voice echoing around the space. The cry came again, sounding very vaguely like Crowley’s name, and he pushed himself to run faster. He ignored the scorching sensation in his wings as they fluttered behind him like a cape, blood dripping from the crippled appendages as he went.

“Crowley!”

The voice came from immediately behind him now. Crowley skidded abruptly to a stop, sending water flying as he whipped around. Aziraphale was stood there, happy as can be, and decidedly unharmed. 

“Angel…?” Crowley asked carefully, taking a tentative step backward.

“Yes, that’s me. What? Is something wrong?” Aziraphale’s tone was confused, worried, and maybe just a little smug. Or maybe Crowley was reading too much into it.

“No, nothing, I just… well, I thought I heard you… nothing. Are you alright?”

Aziraphale didn’t say a word, merely stared at him for a few seconds before grabbing Crowley by the collar of his dress shirt and tugging him down so they were at eye level. The angel’s irises flashed in the dim lighting, shimmering between their usual brilliant blue and a deep, blood red.

“I don’t know, Crowley. Are  _ you _ ?”

He tapped a careful finger against Crowley’s throat, right over his Adam's apple. The skin burned, comfortably at first, the sort of heat you’d expect from a campfire. It quickly intensified, though, until Crowley could practically feel the skin melting off of his neck. 

Aziraphale’s grip on his collar tightened, a malicious grin spreading across his face as he watched bloody tears begin to gather in the corner of Crowley’s eyes. The demon struggled to maintain eye contact, a cocktail of fear and hopefulness keeping his eyes from averting. 

The searing sensation in his neck began to seep downwards, the heat pouring through his throat and into his stomach and lungs. He could feel the flowers blooming within him, feel the petals curling out and brushing against the inside of his stomach and lungs. 

He began to choke as vines crept their way up his throat and out of his mouth, wrapping around the back of his head and beginning to constrict around his skull. Aziraphale let go of his collar, dropping Crowley limply to the ground. Crowley hadn’t even realized that the angel had been holding him up, his legs having gone numb from concentrating on keeping his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s.

New vines, now edged with thorns, began to poke against his sternum, tearing their way through the skin of his chest and cementing themselves in the ground below him, pinning Crowley in a kneeling position. The noises coming from Crowley, stifled by the foliage blocking his airway, could hardly be described as screams, but the desperation within them was more than evident.

Falling had _nothing_ on this. Crowley had always been morbidly comforted by the fact that the most horrendous pain he would ever experience was already over and done with, that no form of agony could surpass that of Falling. He was incredibly incorrect.

Aziraphale knelt before him, his irises now completely overtaken by red. He tilted Crowley’s chin up from the ground, a smirk of pity dancing on his lips as he took in the demon’s desperate, manic expression.    


“Say it, Crowley,” he whispered, “just say it and you’ll be free. Three little words, it’s really not much. I know how much you want to, I know how  _ long _ you’ve been wanting to. Just say it already, and all of this will be over.”

Crowley tried to speak but was blocked by the vines in his throat. The flow of blood coming from his eyes became more intense as he struggled and fought against what was essentially a gag, trying to tell his angel that he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, but  _ god _ he wanted to, so badly.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, a tight grimace settling on his face as he stood up straight and took a step away from the weeping demon.

“Keeping a closed mouth, are we? I mean, that honestly may be the best option. After all, you don’t know what will happen once you do confess. Maybe Pestilence was right, and everything will be fine. Or maybe I, too, will be plagued. Or maybe nothing will happen at all, and I’ll leave you alone to deal with this yourself. After all, I can’t be seen fraternizing with a  _ demon. _ ”

The words stung, burned, cut him to his center. Crowley knew the feelings were clear on his face as Aziraphale grinned knowingly, then disappeared, leaving a puddle of purple and blue petals in his wake.

Crowley, still tethered to the ground, stopped struggling and allowed his head to fall forwards, waiting for what would come next.

Nothing came. The thorns continued to lacerate his skin. 

Nothing came. Liters upon liters of blood spilled out of the wounds in his chest, dripping down the thorn-coated vines and disappearing in the murky water.

Nothing came. 

Nothing-

Crowley jolted upright, taking in a sharp breath as the sound of a telephone ringing shot through his head. He frantically pressed a hand to his chest, feeling around for a moment before realizing he wasn’t bleeding at all, wasn’t even injured. His windpipe was unobstructed, and he was not in a damp void, but rather sitting upright in bed, coated in a layer of sweat. Flowers surrounded the spot where his head had been, his pillowcases drenched in blood. Thin trails of red spilled from the corners of his mouth, some of it long dried, some of it still wet. 

It was just a nightmare. Of course it was, how could he be so stupid? Just a stupid nightmare, a subconscious shitshow that had no effect on anything.

No effect whatsoever. 

The shrill ring of the telephone lingered on, forcing Crowley to get up and make his way into the living room, his unbroken wings trailing tiredly against the ground.

He pondered for a moment whether he should answer. It was probably Aziraphale, since he was the only one Crowley trusted with his phone number, but it could just as easily be Hell checking up on him. Which would be worse, he wondered, Hell or the angel? He wasn’t particularly excited to engage with either party at the moment, but eventually reasoned that it would probably be best if he just picked up the damn phone already.

“Hullo?” Crowley said, his voice thick from sleep. 

“Crowley.”

“Ahh. Hastur. How’s it going?”

“I suppose you could say that it is going. But that’s hardly the point. You’re four weeks behind on your reports, Crowley.”

Crowley froze.

“Oh. And, um… what’s the date, exactly?”

“October 29th, 1936. I hardly see why that matters.”

“It doesn’t,” Crowley lied. “Well, Hastur, it was great talking to you-”

“Dagon is not pleased, Crowley.”

“Yes, I’m sure she isn’t, but-”

“If that report isn’t on her desk by two days from now, Beelzebub has agreed to let her find you and tell you off herself. And you know how she gets when we’re behind on paperwork.”

“Yes, yes, very touchy, that one. Ciao.”

He all but slammed the handset into the receiver before rushing to the door. A handful of papers had been shoved under it, all addressed to him in neat, smooth cursive. 

There were twenty-one letters in total; one for every day he had overslept.

Crowley wrestled with himself. Should he call Aziraphale? The angel was clearly worried, judging by the letters, and it would be almost cruel to purposefully ignore him after all that.

But, then again, perhaps space was what both of them needed. He had decided prior to his nap that he would distance himself, and his little night terror had pushed him even further in that direction.

After a good ten minutes of thought, Crowley dropped the stack of letters onto the kitchen table and slung himself onto the couch.

Some space it was, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that this took so long. I know I say that every chapter, but a bunch of stuff came up IRL and this ended up being a relatively long chapter, and I'm really sorry that it took a fucking month. Like, dear lord.
> 
> However! There's probably only going to be one more chapter, and I'm really gonna try to push my self to get it out soon (or at least soon-ish)!
> 
> (PS, I'm trying to figure out whether I should switch the rating from teen to mature? The nightmare was pretty graphic for my usual writing, and I'm really bad at judging stuff like that, so it'd be helpful to know what y'all think!! <3)


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